Live Like We're Dying
by LaVioleBlanche
Summary: Takes place right after Cool Hand Guerrero. While in prison, Chance and Guerrero go through a rough night thanks to the guards. M/M Noncon first part, but not to worry; there is a happy ending.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Human Target; I am just addicted to it! This fic will make... less sense if you haven't seen the episode Cool Hand Guerrero. Regardless, please R&R! I feed off of reviews like a koala on acacia leaves.

Something is wrong.

It's been almost two weeks since Chance and Guerrero's escape (or re-escape, in Guerrero's case) from Redding County jail, and things have gone back to about as normal as they ever get in their little band of misfits. That's what Chance would like to believe. He wants to brush off the events that occurred during their stay in the Alabama Correctional Facility as easily as his friend seems to. He wants to pretend it didn't happen.

This is what happened:

At around 2 am, the guards paid Guerrero's cell another visit. This time they brought nightsticks.

Guerrero could have taken those nightsticks away, broken them in half, and force-fed them to the guards in under twenty seconds. It would have taken no more effort than tying his shoe. But Chance told him to stand down, to keep a low profile until legal means could be found to clear their names. So Guerrero stood down. When the jailers had entered, he'd sighed, removed his glasses, and placed them carefully on the bed before the beating began. He remained neutral, calm and passive as the sound of metal striking flesh reverberated off the walls. A few other prisoners called out, encouraging the guards or urging the assassin to fight back or cursing all of them for making so much noise at such an ungodly hour. Chance, in the cell opposite, watched his friend being clubbed with a terrible, silent intensity, his knuckles white as he gripped the bars. Guerrero met his gaze once or twice, in between grunts and kicks to his gut, and grinned as reassuringly as possible.

They broke three of his ribs. That wasn't so bad, honestly; he's had much worse, and nobody can take a good beating like Guerrero. It was when one of the guards, apparently tired of bludgeoning the prisoner, began to unbuckle his belt, that Chance snapped.

"Hey!" He'd raised his voice to be heard over the other inmates. "_Hey_! Leave him alone already!" When he was ignored, he bent down, grabbed one of his shoes, flung it with deadly (or what would have been deadly had it been anything other than a loafer) accuracy and hit one of the aggressors in the back of the head. The guard turned angrily, drawing the attention of his cronies. "I said leave him alone!" Chance shouted. "Jesus, guys, he's had enough!"

"Stay out of it, dude," the bloodied, battered man growled.

The guards laughed, and the one with his belt undone bent down to Guerrero's eye level. "Well, your pal over there says you've had enough. Have you had enough? Wanna tell us about the notebook? Maybe your friend wants some."

Guerrero spat a bloody retort into the guy's eye.

The guard's grin warped into an ugly snarl. "_Fine_." He stood, unzipping his slacks, and Chance's mind went into a panicked frenzy.

The other jailers pinned their target's limbs and the again-smirking guard crouched, reaching into his underwear- and a loafer struck him in the jaw.

"Motherf-!" the would-be rapist jumped up, raging, and spun to face Chance. "You got a death wish, asshole?"

"You wanna fuck with someone, fuck with me," the taller prisoner snapped. "Or are you too scared, seeing as how I'm not half your size and bleeding?"

"F-_fuck_ you, man," Guerrero groaned from the floor.

Chance ignored him and continued, mocking the guard, frantically trying to keep the guy's attention away from his friend. "Or maybe you're just afraid someone'll see that pathetic little .22 you're packing down there."

The others laughed and the already aggravated man reddened. Chance definitely had his attention. _Good_, he thought. _Good, keep it up; keep their minds off Guerrero until the day shift gets here..._

But of course Guerrero knows him too well, knew what he was up to, and refused to let the attack be turned toward him. He yanked one leg free, swung it up, and the guard's eyes crossed as a bony knee slammed into the particular area of his anatomy that had, at the moment, most of his blood flowing to it. Even the other guards winced.

"Little _shit_!" The nightsticks swung once more, cracking the smaller man's nose and raining further blows on his arms and chest. He hissed when they struck his broken ribs but made no move to stop them.

"Okay," the affronted guard said at length, having regained his breath. "You two wanna play? We'll play." He motioned to one of his cohorts. "Go get the needle."

They unlocked the door to Guerrero's cell, two of the thugs trodding heavily on the injured man's arms to prevent escape while the other two stepped out. One headed down the hallway toward the Warden's Office, and the other, the ringleader, unlocked Chance's door. The instant it opened, Guerrero shouted for Chance to _run, fucking run, dude, GO!_

For a second he contemplated it, contemplated knocking the guard out, grabbing his gun, and hauling ass out of there, but the two holding his friend down drew their own 9mms and aimed them at the floored man's knees. Their expressions clearly said: _We're not allowed to kill him, but we can kill you, and we can maim the hell out of him so don't try anything._

Chance bit the inside of his cheek, fists balled as his fingers itched for a trigger to pull. The guard grinned and leaned in to speak to him.

"So," the smug bastard said, looking more and more pleased with himself as his companion returned from the office with a syringe full of god knows what. "Since you queers like each other so much, here's what's gonna happen. You," he poked Chance's chest, making him stiffen. "You get a choice. Y'see, Cuckoo's Nest over here," he indicated Guerrero's hunched form, "is gettin' fucked tonight. That ain't negotiable. What _is_ negotiable is who, exactly, does the fuckin'."

That was the exact moment Chance felt his blood freeze in his veins.

"Now, me and the fellas, we're good an' riled up, rarin' to go. We could give him a real seeing-to." The others nodded and shifted in anticipation, an eager light in their eyes that did not bode well for anyone. The speaker continued. "But seems like maybe you two would 'preciate an opportunity like this. So here's my offer, one-time only: you fuck 'im. Or we do."

There was a long, horrible silence as Chance weighed every option possible.

1: Let the guards fuck Guerrero. Sit back and watch his oldest, most loyal friend be gang-raped by a bunch of two-bit hoods who thought they could get away with it by hiding behind the law. Watch Guerrero lie back and take it because Chance ordered him to stand down.

2: Incapacitate the guards, grab Guerrero and run for it. And spend the rest of their lives running for it, hiding and ducking from every siren, every flashing light.

3: Actually... fucking... go through with it. Fuck Guerrero. Bring his deepest, darkest fantasy to life, every secret, twisted little dream he's had since he met the short, lean, long-haired assassin._ A dream come true_, he thought with a sick, bitter feeling. He'd never wanted it to happen like _this_. Rough and forced and cruel in a dirty prison cell, watched by a gang of drooling Neanderthals. He'd hoped- not for silk sheets and sweet nothings, per say, but for some semblance of intimacy, of consent on both parties' sides, of _choice_. In the back of his mind a ruthless, urgent voice whispered that this was the only way it was ever gonna happen. He closed his eyes, shutting off as much of his mind as he could, knowing already what he had to do.

"C'mon, boy, we ain't got all night," the guard's voice broke in, jolting him and he had to physically restrain himself from punching the man in the throat. He sighed, shoulders dropping, and the jailer chuckled. "Looks like someone's made up their mind."

Chance nodded once, twice, eyes opening, and the guard stepped back to allow him into the hallway. He halted in the threshold of his friend's room, his stomach a horrid knot of concern and terror and a dozen stifled emotions he didn't want to feel. The guards noticed his hesitance as the two restraining Guerrero released him and slipped into the hall, and the man with the syringe stepped up and jabbed Chance's arm, pressing down on the plunger. Immediately, said guard was in a headlock as the ex-assassin reacted to the unexpected pain.

"What the fuck was that?" Guerrero rasped, struggling to sit up.

"What'd you just shoot me up with?" He demanded as the captive man wheezed and choked.

"Just a little something to help you loosen up," the lead jailer said coolly, raising his gun. "Drop 'im."

Chance gave his victim's throat another squeeze, then let him fall, gagging, to the floor. "What was that shit?" He asked again, already feeling his pulse pound in his ears.

"Call it a free sample of some of our wares."

"Fucking crack? You fucks shot me up with crack?" Chance rubbed his arm as if he could somehow draw the drug out. His hand shook.

"Don't you fret none; it's pure," one of the other guards said from a distance.

"I swear I'm gonna murder every last one of you," Guerrero hissed venomously. "I will hunt each and every one of you down and hurt you in ways that will make you incapable of registering anything but pain for the rest of your very short lives-"

"Guerrero," Chance ground out, "Stop talking." The wounded man's voice, hoarse and raw and spiteful, was doing things to him it really shouldn't have been doing. His mind reeled, sensation rocketing, and he staggered. One of the jailers gave him a shove and he stumbled into his companion's cell, landing on his knees in front of him. The door swung shut, echoing.

Guerrero pulled himself up into a balled-up crouch, resting on his knees and elbows, curling around his broken ribs. "The fuck are they doing, dude?" He whispered, face contorted in pain and worry.

"They..." Chance couldn't bring himself to say it, couldn't even begin to explain this situation to his friend. "I..."

"Come on, now, boys, don't keep us waitin'," the guard called.

"What's he mean, man?" The bruised man asked, voice rising, trying to keep his calm.

Chance took a breath, shuddering, released it, reached forward and took hold of Guerrero's face, brushing hair away from his eyes, leaned in and pressed his forehead to his friend's. "...I'm sorry."

Next chapter will be posted whenever I write it.


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter is officially dedicated to Tree979. Because she is fantastic.

"Dude," Guerrero said in a hushed, uneasy tone. "You're starting to freak me out. What the hell do they want? I couldn't hear what he said." He seemed unfazed by Chance's hands cupping his jaw, and his brilliant blue eyes were focused and alert, ready to act on a word.

The larger man winced at the trust in his friend's face, self-loathing making him nauseous as he took a steadying breath and whispered a hurried explanation. "They want..." He paused as a wave of something not-quite-pain and not-quite-pleasure went shivering through him. Guerrero saw it and ran a reassuring hand up the blonde's arm, unaware that it had the exact opposite effect: the rough warmth of gun-calloused fingertips on his over-sensitized skin made Chance's pulse spike erratically and he pulled away, forcing the words out. "He gave me a choice: either they all fuck you or... or I do."

The bloodied man blinked twice, blank-faced. Chance realized fleetingly that he was probably the only person in the world who knew Guerrero well enough to recognize that as his version of panic. "So..." His voice dropped even lower. "So what- what are you... what's-"

"Well, I..." Chance looked down- couldn't meet his friend's eyes as he finished, "I thought, better me... than them."

At that, Guerrero's eyes went went wide, the terrified look of someone on the verge of running. "No. No." He'd suddenly dropped all pretense of calm, his voice shaking as he tried to pull away, and Chance, hating himself already, gripped his arms, holding him.

"I have. No. Choice," he hissed, shooting a glance at the leering guards. "It'll be- it'll be easier on you if it's just me, I can-" _I can what? Make it good? Be gentle about it? Make this situation somehow less horrifying than it is?_ "I can make it... quick," he promised.

Guerrero was shaking his head almost frantically, his breathing rapid and shallow. "No, I can't, we can't, it can't be you, it can't be _you_, man-"

Chance's grip on his friend's arms tightened, trying to keep him calm, ignoring the other man's half-formed protests. "Guerrero, just- just trust me. You've always trusted me before, right? Just one more time, trust me." Before Guerrero could reply, the guard spoke up, gloating from the other side of he bars.

"C'mon, fellas. Don't make me retract my generous offer, now." His pals laughed and ogled the two prisoners with unhidden enthusiasm.

Guerrero started to spit some harsh rejoinder, but he twisted wrong and doubled over, his broken ribs stabbing at him. Chance automatically ran a hand over his hunched back, checking him, and before he knew it his palm had curved around the firm, rounded plane of Guerrero's ass. The smaller man froze instantly, every muscle tense.

Chance leaned in again, apologies dying uselessly in his throat, his hand refusing to move. "Guerrero," he said urgently, "I'll make it fast, I swear, but I... have to do it. The drug is... I don't wanna lose control." _Anymore than I already have_, he almost added.

"Fucking _scum_," Guerrero said in a deep, hoarse voice- the voice that Chance normally recognized as a warning to duck and cover, the voice he associated with the sound of breaking bones and cars exploding. The smaller man wrenched himself away from his companion to face their tormentors. "Fucking _cowards_! What's wrong, can't get it up yourselves? You gotta drug someone and watch _him_ do it to get your rocks off? Fuck this shit, man, I'd rather get bled by a bunch of limp-dick strangers than-" his tirade ended suddenly when Chase, crouched behind him and already feeling like the worst person in the world, jabbed two fingers into the spot right over his cracked ribs. He buckled, swearing, and Chance caught him in a careful, constrictive hold, curling his body around his friend's.

"Don't say that," the larger man growled, his own voice deepening with rage, sorrow, lust, and a dozen other things. "Don't fucking say it. They're not gonna do it; I won't let them-" his right hand slid forward on its own, dipped below the hem of the captive man's trousers. His left hand worked quickly at his own jumpsuit, yanking it open and reaching into his briefs.

"_No_," Guerrero grated, fists curling against the concrete as he was stripped. His struggles had died down as Chance's hand slipped into his pants, and his eyes were closed, like he could block out what was happening if he shut them tight enough. Good, that was good; if he could remove himself from the situation Chance wasn't going to stop him.

One of the guards wolf-whistled as the smaller man's ass was exposed, and Guerrero shuddered and swore under his breath in what might've been Russian. Chance shot a glare at the guard, trying to convey all the murderous, hateful intent, all the loathing he felt toward the sick bastards, toward the drug heating his blood, toward himself for knowing that the drug was only half the cause of the excitement stirring in him. He was hard already, hard and breathing heavy as he opened his fly and pulled himself out, glancing sideways at their audience in dull, unexpectant hope that they might pass a condom, some lube, through the bars. They laughed.

He turned back to the body he was still half curled around in mock-protection, and had to stop himself from placing a kiss on the beaten man's tattooed shoulder. Guerrero didn't want that, didn't want to be like that, didn't want _him_. With that last bitter thought clinging to him, Chance spat into his hand, spat until his mouth was dry and reached forward.

Guerrero flinched as the first finger pressed into him, his own nails scraping the floor. One finger became two, then three, as the larger man tried desperately to ease the resistance, to make it easier on both of them. He curled the invading digits, stretching as slowly as possible, and heard a low groan that he could almost pretend had been of pleasure. He'd wanted that sound, imagined it escaping along with his name and a number of choice whispers in the warm cocoon of his sheets; he'd wanted to be the one that caused it for so long. Now he'd gotten it, forced it out, made it into a sound of pain and anger and fear. Guerrero made the sound again and in spite of himself Chance rolled his hips forward, ground against him, blood singing in his ears.

"Do it," someone said, and it was impossible to tell at that point if it had been a guard, a prisoner, Chance or even Guerrero.

Lungs heaving like he'd run ten miles, skin shining with sweat from the effort of restraint, he pulled his hand away, spat again and crawled closer.

Guerrero made a dry, choked-off noise, shoulder blades standing out like wings, and Chance was glad he couldn't see the smaller man's face, couldn't see the agony there, the betrayal. He wished he still felt sick, felt that nauseous pit in his stomach, but all he felt was the heat, the high, the way Guerrero clenched and unclenched around him as he fought to keep still.

Chance shifted ever-so-slightly, panting, and Guerrero tensed and made _that_ _sound_ again and before he could stop himself he was thrusting, sinking deeper and deeper into his friend, rutting like an animal inside him. His hands clung to the captive man's hips, his spine curved so that his chest met Guerrero's back with every ragged breath. His mind was a fog, a delirium of scattered words, no coherent thoughts, just _heat_ and _mine_ and _take_ and _yes_ and _fuck_ and _Guerrero, Guerrero, Guerrero, Guerrero_ over and over like a heartbeat. He let one hand creep around, trying to get a better grip, felt something brush his wrist, felt the body under his freeze, and registered, through the haze, that somehow, Guerrero was hard. A reflex, had to be, a physical response only, but Chance thought that maybe he could make it better for his friend, distract him somehow, let him at least get some small relief. Still thrusting helplessly, he circled his fingers, slick with spit and sweat, around the shaft.

The reaction was immediate and unexpected; the smaller man struggled for the first time since he's been entered, writhing and bucking, voice rough from biting back screams as he muttered, "_Don't_."

Chance's hand slid up once, pumped in time with his movements, and for a moment Guerrero sagged against him and moaned; for a moment it was like sex instead of rape, like _choice_.

Then the injured man seemed to snap, fighting again, grunting, "Chance. Don't. _Please_ don't-" He wrested the bigger man's hand away, pinned it to the floor.

Chance cried out, barely stifling Guerrero's name at the last second as he came. He remained, shivering with aftershocks for a few moments before his head began to clear itself of the seductive poison in his veins. He withdrew, separating himself from his friend, and it felt like dying, like leaving a piece of his soul behind.

One of the guards began a slow clap.

"That was some show, fellas," the ringleader said, voice full of something horribly like glee. "Get him back into his room."

Guerrero yanked his pants back up, neither standing or sitting, not facing his companion as the door opened. Chance knew he shouldn't, but instinct and habit made him put a cautious hand on his old friend's shoulder, asking and apologizing without words. The bruised figure stiffened, skin cold under the warm palm on his arm, and murmured two words.

"I'm sorry."

_What?_ Chance wanted to ask as he was pulled away and shoved back into his cell. _What the fuck do _you_ have to be sorry for, Guerrero? _I'm_ sorry, I'm so sorry, this shouldn't have happened; I should have had a plan, I shouldn't have let this happen to you! _He couldn't make the words come out, could only stare through the bars at the form of his friend as he dragged himself back to his cot, knocking the book and glasses onto the floor. After a half hour or so, he seemed to be asleep, or at any rate his breathing slowed and he stopped moving for a while. Chance remained standing at his door, his mind on overdrive as he plans furiously.

The next day they made good their daring escape, and if Guerrero was limping a little, if he was a little slower than normal, no one noticed; or rather no one said anything. A week went by, and each day Chance told himself that he would call Guerrero, sit down and talk with him, and each day he put it off. There was another job, helping an old friend of Chance's to bust his friend from a VA hospital in Mexico before some drug lords could kill him. It was a success, but along the way Guerrero managed to get winged in the leg by a stray bullet before they could clear the ground in their freshly-hijacked chopper. He tied it off with a shirt sleeve to slow the bleeding, but it was an hour-long ride in the copter before they reached US soil, and by then the auburn-haired man was pale and dizzy with blood loss. Normally, Chance would have been the one to drive him to a 'safe' hospital, one that patched up bullet wounds and didn't ask questions, but something made him stay away, made him give Winston the directions to the nearest clinic (run by a guy named Worth who was just as shady as Guerrero himself but knew how to treat the kind of injuries they came in with) and climb into his car alone.

And now another week has nearly gone by, and things could almost be called 'back to normal'. But they aren't.

Something is wrong.

...

Reviews and such are always appreciated!

Oh, and for those of you that might worry about it, Chance is not gonna go into withdrawal- cocaine doesn't cause physical withdrawal symptoms the first few times.


End file.
